


i wanna tell you, what my truth is (but it's buried down inside)

by Yevynaea



Series: and they were soulmates! (oh my god, they were soulmates.) [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Platonic Soulmates, Post stolen century pre bureau era, Short One Shot, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: “Davenport?”Lucretia opens her mouth, closes it. Takes a deep breath.“They're your soulmarks,” she replies. “I have some too.”





	i wanna tell you, what my truth is (but it's buried down inside)

**Author's Note:**

> :)

Davenport (because that is his name, even if it feels, somehow, incomplete) has to step up on a wooden stool to see himself in the mirror properly. The room he and Lucretia are sharing-- and indeed most of the inn-- is sized for humans and other, taller races.

He pulls his shirt off, frowning, again, at the images he sees on his torso. They’re bright, vibrant, smooth against his skin. They don't make any sense. If they're tattoos, they must be enchanted not to fade. He doesn't remember getting them (but then, he doesn't remember a lot of things).

On either side of his neck, where it meets his shoulders, there's an open red umbrella, and a frying pan over red and blue flame.

Over his heart, a red flower he doesn't know the name of, green, leafy, thorny vines spiralling outward from it.

On the inside of one arm, an axe with a red cloth tied around the handle like a flag.

On the opposite side, just under his ribs, a humanoid skull wearing red-framed glasses over its empty eyes. (Davenport smiles a little at that one, just from the silliness of it.)

On his wrist, an open book, blank, and on his palm, an overturned inkwell, red ink spilling down to spatter the white pages.

Davenport runs his fingers over each picture, wondering at them, about them.

“Davenport?” Lucretia's voice comes from outside the bathroom. Davenport puts his shirt back on before opening the door, and Lucretia smiles at him. “There's a farmer’s market set up in town square, I thought we could go find ingredients for dinner.”

Davenport nods, rather than try to force the words to take shape in his mouth. Today has been a good day, his thoughts as clear as they ever get, but he doesn't want to push it.

Lucretia smiles. Then Davenport pulls his sleeve up, pointing at the ink and book.

_ What is this?  _ he tries to ask.

“Davenport?” comes out instead.  _ Damn it _ . The smile drops from Lucretia’s face, she looks almost stricken. She shakes her head. Davenport, insistent, pulls his shirt collar to the side and points to where he knows the pan to be.  _ What are these?  _ “Davenport?”

Lucretia opens her mouth, closes it. Takes a deep breath.

“They're your soulmarks,” she replies. “I have some too.”

“Davenport? Davenport Davenport.”  _ You do? I've never seen them. _

“I try to keep them out of sight.” Lucretia rolls up her own sleeve, revealing words scrawled around her arm like a bracelet. Davenport tries not to be frustrated when he can't read them. He looks at her words, then back to the picture on his hand.

“Davenport?”

“Every race is different,” Lucretia says, getting the gist of his question. “Gnomes have symbols. Humans have their soulmates’ first words to them.”

Davenport nods. He knew that. Did he? No… but should he have? His head is starting to hurt, trying to remember. Number, the number was important, he needs to ask-- he holds up six fingers.

“Davenport?” he asks.

“I-- I have a lot, too,” Lucretia replies, which isn't the answer he was looking for, but it is an answer. “Most people have a few, actually; they can be-- they can be romantic or platonic.”

Davenport nods. More things he might've known once. He looks at his wrist again, the open book, the ink. There's something familiar… he looks at the little desk in the corner of their room, Lucretia's journal on top of it. He's never been able to read most of the words inside.

Something connects.

“Davenport!” he says, showing her the mark on his wrist again, and pointing at her. “Davenport!”

Lucretia looks sad,  _ so  _ sad, for a second, but she hides it quickly, smiles, nods.

“Yes, I think so, too,” she says softly.

Davenport smiles back at her. He wants to tell her it'll be alright, wants to chase that sadness away from behind her eyes, wants to ask more questions-- he tries to take her hand and she draws back quickly, mouth opening but no words coming out.

“I'm-- I'm sorry,” she says finally, looking down, away from him. ( _Ashamed_ , _she's_ _ashamed_ , something in him realizes. He doesn't know what to do with that.)

She doesn't take his hand.


End file.
